


Cash Grass or Sass

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, FBI Backstory, Gender or Sex Swap, Girl Malcolm, If Mal was a Girl, If Malcolm was a Girl, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Sexism, Sexism not from Gil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Say hello to Mallory Bright. Adapted from the original Mal model, retrofit with lady bits.Prompt:  Gil is a champ pussy eater.Warning: The non-consensual voyeurism by a minor character in one scene may be a trigger. Mal/Gil is consensual oral sex.  I only wrote up to the oral sex.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: Prodigal Son Kink Meme





	Cash Grass or Sass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToriCeratops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToriCeratops/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Tori!

With her psychology degree under her belt and no more heart-to-hearts with her serial killer father at Claremont Psychiatric, Mallory braced herself for a million permutations of failing out of Quantico. Because, well, serial killer father. What she didn’t anticipate was the sexist cuntblocking.

Mallory wasn’t new to the Good Ol’ Boys club. The night of Dr. Whitly’s arrest, the men in blue had laid siege on New York’s own house of horrors. The women in Gil’s precinct were mainly behind word processors. The national percentage for female police officers in the mid 90’s was 9.8%, rounded up. 

An amateur classical ballerina from eight to thirteen years of age and a shoe-in for an Ivy League feeder school, Mallory squinted for different perspectives through her admittedly rose-tinted Cartier sunglasses. But all she saw was G man in FBI school keeping a woman down.

The year 2009 was the year of chauvinists. Artillery rounds at Quantico weren’t nearly as deafening as the first comment from another male candidate looking down at her about her shoes. Mallory took the gender terrorism in stride, camouflaging in business casual dark clothes and a ponytail when you could’ve fried an egg on Lincoln’s steps. Wearing body shapers that took her down one cup size beneath her training uniform. Plucking the ends of her admittedly wide eyebrows and wearing makeup that didn’t look like makeup to illuminate dark under eyes. Quietly crying through tac training from the sting of her matte powder sweating into her eyeballs fuck off.

Crying with the other women, who had amazing stories and die hard passion. Many of them were prepared to move themselves and their families for lifelong work. Mallory, initially leery of getting close to anyone, could not have weed eaten the coursework without the smartest and deadliest women from all over the country. A few of them had been to Afghanistan and these warrior babes couldn’t quit the game.

After five months, the ladies of Mallory's class coordinated and discerned who the agency would cherry pick. The proficient classmates whose families served the FBI were automatic graduates. From talking to one another and marshaling intel for the list of candidates up for review, Mallory was sweating because her placement on that review list was extremely middling. Not far below her on the list were the bottom-tier bitches who made lethal mistakes in tac eval.

While Mallory needed improvement on how to clear a room, her overall marks exceeded average. But she was maxing out her aluminum free antiperspirant in her bleached blouse while Colette Swanson sat pretty. Colette was several names above Mallory. Brass would look at her affirmatively as a mixed Hispanic female, light in coloring to rub elbows with the boys but ethnic enough to effectively make in-roads within communities prone to crime.

Mallory looked around the waiting room of attractive and fit women and dug her buffed and unpolished nails into her long sleeve.

“Hey, look up Mal. Some bozo gets you on a technicality. You’re gonna kill it,” said Colette.

Mallory smiled and rubbed at her neck. “Not what I want the review board to think about.”

“Right, your dad,” winced Colette. She grabbed Mallory’s knee and shook it.

“I saw you in tac,” said Colette.

“I lucked out with Edgerton watching my ass.”

Colette wriggled her fiercely bold eyebrows. “So did I.”

Edgerton had proctored their tac evals. A fair guy, reputed to reserve his put-downs for blustering incompetence, he was extremely popular with the ladies although many of them suspected that he typically preferred men in his cross hairs.

The majority of the review board were white women, with one Santiago in the wheat pile. Only one man sat on the board, Supervisory Special Agent Székely. Mallory projected the image of an optimistic but steady young woman who was farther up the list than her. Beneath her neutral pink veneer, Mallory noted that the women on either side of Special Agent Székely consistently flicked their eyes on the notes he quietly made without speaking one word to Mallory.

Though she could have, Mallory refrained from calling his personal number afterwards. At least, not before she tracked the actual times when he was habitually in office. She dialed him from a disposable phone and when she heard motions through the door, cut the line, tossed the device in the lost and found, and knocked assertively, ensuring he could see how cute she was through the adjacent glass panes.

Her hair was slick straight and glossy. The outer corners of her eyes were subtly lined to balance her soft tinted lip. She wore a thin but modestly cut blouse, light pink in color to suggest nudity beneath her peach blazer and cream pants.

“Thought you would actually find me. Shut the door,” said Agent Székely in a mild voice.

“How am I doing now, sir?” asked Mallory. Her right hand smoothed back her loose brown hair, the flirty motion calculated to downplay her hand tremors.

“You saw through our review process. The next five minutes will determine the rest of your life,” he informed.

“Okay, shoot,” said Mallory.

“Get your blouse open,” rejoined Székely.

Funny, how her hands were steady as a statue when she complied like a Special Agent already under him; the next ten years of her life assured.

Mallory convinced herself that she would move past necessary actions and save someone who deserved to live. She built her delusions, soundproofed around her shrieking superego, yet made her next regrettable decision to get drinks with Colette.

“To us! For smashing the glass ceiling! With our dignity intact!” cheered Colette.

Mallory dragged her arm up in a delay that she laughed off as drunkenness.

Colette smirked through her untainted celebratory drink. “Or wit cash or ass, Bright.”

“Fuck off, I worked my way up,” said Mallory. Her head rushed when she got to her feet.

“Yes, you did. You worked something special, Agent Bright,” said Colette.

Crying out her sob story was not in the cards. Mallory grinned slowly, salt in her throat, shaking brown strands from her cool blue eyes, as she stole the cherry from Colette’s drink and sucked it down. “Can neither confirm or deny. That is classified, Agent Swanson.”

Mallory excused herself to the little girls room, but not before casually laying down a knotted wet stem on the table. Better to be labeled a whore than to be written off as weak.

* * *

Tea with her father was a delightfully maddening affair. Dr. Whitly’s glossy brown hair, wavy at the ends, stuck out from his polka dotted bow tie purple top hat. The polka dot bow tie clashed with his fleur de lis half-done necktie. 

Golden afternoon light streamed through the lofty windows in her father’s room. To their left were father’s medical tomes and shelves of his journals which included father’s own illustrations. A huge metal cage welded for an exotic beast loomed from behind Dr. Whitly’s top hat. They made do on a rickety plastic table and Mallory was lucky to dribble down one-third of her tea in a competition to comport herself more ridiculously than her theatrical father.

Eggs colored a soft turquoise nested within ceramic holders tacked with Mallory’s Lisa Frank rainbow stickers. 

Mallory thought they were soft boiled eggs. She tapped hers with a soup spoon, like a savage with the incorrect utensil. When the turquoise egg cracked, a yellow bird with green feathers hopped out.

Dr. Whitly mirrored his daughter's motions, prodding open his egg. Black leeches, bloated, wet, twitchy, slapped onto the tabletop. Droplets flecked Mallory’s cheeks, ran down her baby face, warm and thick and inking her fingerprints scarlet. Then the wriggling pile stretched into necrotic fingers loosely tarped with flesh, each splintered and dented nail screeching closer to Mallory.

Her father cast aside the table and lunged at her, his expression loveless and void, his chains rattling, the tether holding him back snapped like taffy. She made it to the cell door, had nowhere to go but to turn and face what awaited her. Belatedly, Mallory remembered what the cage was for. Not for an animal, but a monster.

In her final moments, her bloody hand spun the knob. She could’ve escaped but it was over when the monster clutched her with deadly intent. She missed his presence in her life, but the long simmering desire to strike back won out.

* * *

Mallory growled in frustration when her fists went no further, restrained by her leather safety cuffs from dealing real damage. She spat out her mouth guard and screamed in her bed. 

In her present reality, the Feds terminated her position following an incident where she fought a Sheriff and flipped his Deputy into a spineless heap. Mallory sprang out of bed to stretch, meditate, shower, and moisturize. 

Gil had returned her text from last night. Her mood lifted; she thrived on work summons from a handsome fox like Gil. One way or another, Mallory was going to get some action.

“Give yourself permission to slow down,” Mallory repeated her daily affirmation one more time after she misted on the makeup setting spray. Her foot depressed the pedal on her trash can, to toss out a metallic copper smudged cotton pad. She rolled her shimmery eyes when she spotted the condom. 

Last night, she had been fast. Her buddy last night had been late 30s, average looks, underemployed and ten inches inside her. She hadn’t required finesse, expecting to coast on a hypnotic and rhythmic dick drag for a 30 minute minimum. Just when Mallory relaxed, his balls mashed flat a few times and it was over quickly, less than the time it took for her to state she had work in the morning. Hence, the late night text to Gil.

She wanted a body, and would have preferred Gil’s. But a stranger’s corpse would suffice to occupy her restless energies.

Mallory went bare legged under a knee length wool dress and a silk slip. The hem was distinctly embroidered with eye fetching hues that peeked beneath her cinched winter coat. The crisp air invigorated her mind and put her senses of observation on high alert. She was pulsing and dripping in anticipation of mystery in the winds, her pussy lips ripened and rubbing heatedly from the press of her thighs striding confident and eager.

She very much derived a kick from grooming her posh exterior of high quality textiles and blown out chestnut brown hair and her own signature fragrance. Pearl studs and the delicate white-gold necklace from Saks & 5th which Mother gifted her upon graduation. Meanwhile, if someone laid down beneath her heels, they could sight all the way up to the swell of her labia engorged into a pink wet spread and smell the musk clinging to her crevices that a quick shower wouldn’t cleanse.

Her previous unsatisfactory fuck had left her overexcited. Hands pocketed in her winter coat, Mallory glided into the Ventura building recently built in 2012 within Hudson Yards, the far Upper West of Manhattan. 

The Ventura’s architecture was futuristic and modern as the galleries and arts performances hosted on site; engineered with space age inspired aesthetics like a glass shuttle crash landed in Chelsea, kept standing by an exterior translucent silver shell composed of wind proofed materials fused in polyhedral configurations that from far away could’ve been mistaken for fog or cloud. 

Mallory’s professional appearance allowed her uncontested passage onto the eighth floor after a brief chat with lobby security. While modern and contemporary art wasn’t her scene, it was the killer’s. Mallory studied noteworthy artworks, sashaying methodically towards the crime lab techs. She had five browser tabs open in her phone to research the works exhibited for public consumption.

As she anticipated, the killer dramatically staged their victim to become part of the gallery’s collection. The body was roped down to an intact dark gray boulder ten feet in length, four feet in height, and three feet wide. The sides of the boulder were carved into a rectangular base, its smooth planes glimmering from embedded sediments, except for the uppermost surface maintaining its weathered and roughened craggles where the victim reposed. Mallory studied how the beige rope spooled around the presumably nude corpse of an effeminate male beneath the base of the boulder. Each coil was uniformly tightened, leaving no gaps, such that the boulder remained level with the floor.

A smile flashed across Mallory’s face when she scented florals. Further inspection revealed freshly shredded flower petals curled in-between the taut braids. She dearly wanted to skim the pads of her fingers along the natural fibers and press down to expand the fragrant cloud.

“Whoa, art boner,” said the medical examiner.

“Hey Edrisa. Undyed hemp?”

“Good eye! Did you notice the smooth treatment of the fibers? Very shiny,” said Edrisa. “I don’t usually get them this neatly tucked in. Sucks though.”

“Why’s that?” Mallory asked.

“I’m either going to get dozens of samples or next to nothing,” explained Edrisa.

“This is easily one hundred bucks worth of rope, assuming a wholesale discount not including shipping fees. Would require a dedicated or spacious workshop to burn loose threads. Immaculate condition of hemp fibers; our rope artist plucked out the stems and extraneous matter.” Mallory staggered her feet and almost curtsied to more closely appreciate the killer’s handiwork.

“Do you smell that, Edrisa?”

“Jojoba oil. This was treated for bondage. You’ve got the nose for kink,” agreed Edrisa. They traded smirks.

Mallory knelt onto the floor and borrowed Edrisa’s flashlight to peek around the hemp coils at the boulder itself.

“Whaddya think, Bright? You do know that’s not part of the gallery.”

Mallory returned Edrisa’s flashlight, her body reacting to Gil’s teasing when he approached the women. Her hands splayed on the gallery’s hardwood floor and she became conscious of her positioning: inner calves pressed flat, heels pointed at intersecting angles, her embroidered dress fanned out over her bare knees. Her long brown hair dragged the shoulders of her winter coat as she raised her face to the display lights and showed off the long line of her pale throat framed by thick, dark fabric.

If she were reading the momentary stretch of his tensed fingers correctly, Gil noticed her shape and form and posture broadcasting her lush thoughts. Her pussy would leave a subtle imprint on the hardwood. The weight of her body on her throbbing parts felt too good, and she couldn’t resist rolling her hips, pinching her clit against the hardwood, shuddering out a tense breath, before she made a good faith effort to stand decent.

Her Lieutenant was looking particularly appetizing under strong illumination. Mallory glimpsed the careful part of his hair, the swirl atop his locks which were so dark that a thin blue beam of light contoured the sheen of his strands, the whitened ends of his beard radiating along his tropical complexion. But what really drew her was the determined glint in his eyes when he dealt with her capricious movements or her crazy driven hunches. Gil was an excellent day off waiting to happen, if he would just let it.

Gil grasped the sleeve of her jacket and helped her up. His effortless coordination and casual strength pleased her very much. Her eyes darted from the eensy little slick on the buffed varnish before she switched gears into work mode.

“Hey, Gil. Our artist strikes again,” said Mallory, changing the ‘i’ into an elongated e sound.

“Have you had a look around?” asked Gil. He relinquished his hold.

“I did indeed. How about you show me which exhibits appeal to you, Lieutenant? You show me what you like and I’ll show you mines,” offered Mallory, keeping her tone light, friendly, and just shy of a sexual harassment claim to HR.

Gil looked to heaven incredulously but he was game. 

“This is what I get for dodging your invites to museum outings. Have you hit this place before?” said Gil.

“Never tried this gallery. I’ve seen their ads for jazz concerts. But what the hey, no time like the present to stop and smell the abstract roses,” said Mallory. 

Their jackets brushed as they strolled to a bronze statue of a man posed in a javelin throw, Gil’s favorite. Mallory picked a half-melted feminine figure dribbled into a lacquered black rectangle, the tits puddled, her favorite. 

“Did you really have to show me the girl in the box,” deadpanned Gil.

Mallory raised her hands. “I do need to branch out more with my preferred aesthetics. Subconscious tell.”

An almost mischievous smile played on her face. “Wanna see something that we’ll both like?”

Mallory brought his attention to a display of plain PVC pipes that were zip tied by randomly drilled holes into dubious stability. Gil circled the pipes and determined that the holes drilled into the pipes weren’t accidental.

“Where’s the plaque or tag for this… is it art?” said Gil.

“This isn’t pictured on the website and I’ll bet that security detail wouldn’t recognize it because it’s not an originating exhibit,” said Mallory.

“At least we know how the killer leveraged a fricken rock. They rolled those pipes out from under the rock after each pass with the rope. Then they brought the pipes here and pieced it together while looking at vic,” said Gil from where he planted his shoes.

“So you do like it,” said Mallory, clapping her hands.

“I like it for pre-meditated murder,” agreed Gil.

“Have you seen everything that you wanted to see?” said Mallory. A fair distance from lab techs and the other detectives, Mallory opened up her coat with exaggerated slowness, dragging her fist over a loose belt. She was thrilled from his eyes lingering on her feminine shape, and could feel where he looked.

“How about you focus on the body,” said Gil.

Mallory laughed before sauntering to the roped off boulder, soon to be taped off. When she no longer faced Gil, the line of her mouth set more contemplatively. She resisted the urge to touch her face, knowing that if she pressed just under her falsies, her eyes were hella puffy and would’ve been bloodshot without moisturizing drops.

As much as she liked Gil, she wasn’t exactly heartbroken when he downplayed her flirtatious overtures. Their respective careers in different cities had given them appropriate distance which Mallory didn’t begrudge. A hot young BAU agent had no business with a married policeman when there were unattached adults available in the hours and the miles from here to DC Metro.

Her loaded smiles and supple nonverbals started when she noted the gold band on Gil’s finger more than a year after Jackie. Assured that every invitation for wild sex would miss, Mallory perversely leaned into reminding Gil that he was objectively fuckable and fell off of no one’s radar.

If he ever said yes, Mallory would go all in, starving herself from quickie hookups or penetrative bondage scenes for 16 weeks before STD testing. If her blood work checked out, she would ride Gil through her insomnia and let him flood her down to her ankles. He would have her undivided attention however long their trysting period would endure. She would do a lot if it meant pulling his hair and comparing that sensation to her fantasies, cobbled from her experience with older darker proxy daddies. Gil might slap off her lipstick for being too bold with him on the job. She would thank him and ask for another.

But for now, a morning and afternoon of learning at a private gallery was her best date with the man she especially noticed when she turned thirteen.

* * *

It was around 11 at night, several days since the NYPD began investigating the white male, 26, roped to the boulder, death caused by overindulgence and asphyxiation. Gil strong armed Mallory into eating more than a handful of pistachios and string cheese. A square meal sat like resentment in Mallory’s stomach, already cramped from nibbling here and there in her tireless investigations. Gil’s insistence on driving her in his black Pontiac foretold of a lecture on Mallory’s deplorable sleep hygiene. He pulled over on Lafayette in a spot where he could sight her path homewards.

“The timetables in-between kills are decreasing. He could be luring his fourth victim into their deathbed any day now. If he’s discarding his established lovers as tissues, he’ll adapt and the victimology changes, stepping into stranger kill.” Mallory’s brows furrowed, vivid imagination propping open the sunken windows of her eyes.

“Kid, the four and five AM texts stop,” concluded Gil.

“You don’t have to read them ‘til you’re on the clock. That’s the beauty of instantaneous sharing. Freezing your distilled insights in a flash,” said Mallory.

“Bull crap. The case isn’t keeping you up. It’s just kept you going. And the one before that,” said Gil. “What happened to you in DC?”

“You mean what I did to join up or what I did to get on the chopping block?” retorted Mallory. Then her overwrought brain caught up to what she said.

“Both. What got you fired, Bright? An experienced investigator like you-- with one hell of a solve rate-- made the paperwork go down that fast in the Bureau. How?”

“Things can go funny on you in the South,” said Mallory. “We closed in on Claude Springer. Tennessee tannery. Where the first crime happened when he was just a boy. Where the state dumped Claude into the dregs of humanity and left him to pickle in truancy and abuse. America at Its Best.”

Mallory’s jaw worked to focus on their conversation. Her contempt built into towering rage which she then depressed beneath a polite facade. “Springer had me down but I saw he had a dart gun. Non lethal shots. I stalled for time and he lowered his gun. I fucking had Springer. I could’ve brought him in alive, given the victims’ families a chance to witness justice, let his hostages see the killer who abducted them go down. Then the Sheriff ended it with a 12-gauge. ‘'You’re safe, baby girl.’”

As Mallory mimicked the condescension shown to her by an old man, her fury broke through her deliberately fabricated control. The incident clearly left her fuming. 

“You better believe I punched stupid head! TKO without breaking my nails. Mr. Gunslinger couldn’t take the hit, so he went after my job despite my formal apology which is the bureaucratic equivalent of sucking off an old white fogey.”

Gil’s laugh shook the Pontiac. "You’re a wreck, kid.”

Mallory gifted him with an indulgent smile. She was beyond mad that the only thing left for her to do was to join in with the laughter.

“Jesus, kid. If you’re going to work for me, you have to clue me in to what’s going on in your head. You know every time I check in with you, I’m worried when you say you’re fine? Flirting with me doesn’t deflect my concern.”

Gil pegged her with a long look, a thousand-yard stare in a tight spot, a searching gaze which could only come from a man who she had loved for years, whose friendship she valued to the extent that she never wanted to ask him for anything.

“Your game’s a little played out, Bright.”

“What am I supposed to tell you, Gil? When you already know me too well?” pointed out Mallory. Her nerves, her fear over what Gil thought of her, pinched her face before her features sank into thinned out resignation.

“You can start with what happened to you at Quantico,” said Gil.

* * *

"Get your blouse open."

The walls of Special Agent Székely’s office appeared to be closing in, Mallory’s universe shrinking to her choices. Do what the man says or fuck off.

Her light pink blouse hung open, the lapels parted by a two or three inch gap which Mallory made no attempt to widen.

“Unbutton your trousers. Fold down the fabric. There’s a good girl,” said Agent Székely.

The gray satin of her panties glimmered, a little teaser of what a supervisory agent could demand of Mallory while he stared down Mallory’s dossier. His high backed chair creaked as he took in the sight of her, from her slick straight hair to her polished flats.

“Everything in your purse on my desk, please.”

Mallory’s tube of lotion, a packet of Kleenex tissues, and gum wrappers sprawled on the agent’s desk. Agent Székely showed less interest in her cherry chapstick or the receipts or her wallet. 

“Show me your phone.”

When Agent Székely saw that Mallory had no running apps besides her texts, he told her to shut it down. He helped himself to her gum, watermelon flavored, the smack of his lips almost obscene in the quiet office. Anyone looking in would think that they were having a business related conversation, without knowing how much of Mallory’s breasts and navel Székely could see.

“Turn out your pockets.”

“Women’s clothing don’t have real pockets, sir.”

Agent Székely squinted at her suspiciously, trying to suss out a joke. Mallory kept her tongue in cheek while he surveyed her with an annoyed face.

“You can fix your clothes, Ms. Bright. Had to check that you weren’t recording.”

“Of course, sir,” said Mallory. She crossed her arms after buttoning up and neatly tucking the fabric.

“Look at me, probie.”

Mallory’s baby blues dragged from the grayish beige carpet. 

He uncapped her fragrant lotion and squirted a little into his palms, rubbing his hands to warm up. Agent Székely held her gaze as his hands dipped below his desk. He licked his thin and colorless lips, showing his coffee stained bottom teeth. His breath hitched, little slaps as he jerked it with sweet pea scented product.

Mallory had to watch, the moments stretching as Agent Székely took forever to come. She witnessed the sheen of sweat on his brow as his face reddened, drawing attention to the flaky dry patches of skin around his nostrils and the corners of his tense mouth. His rumbling groan filled her cold and hollow chest, her stomach tight and empty like a drum.

Her packet of tissues disappeared. Mallory heard a swoosh then the crinkle of a garbage bag. Agent Székely gestured at her personal effects.

“Get your things. We’re done here,” said Agent Székely, fixing himself up.

Mallory tipped her purse onto its side and in two neat motions, swept her things inside.

“How did I do, sir?” She almost choked getting out the words, loathed herself for begging, but this was her life and her sanity which this man played with.

The little gray man smiled wryly and extended his hand.

Mallory gnashed her teeth before she raised her right hand and sealed the deal with a reasonably firm grip. His palm was humid and gummy as they shook hands.

“Welcome to the Bureau, Agent Bright.”

* * *

Gil undid his seat belt and pulled Mallory into a hug that made her hate herself slightly less.

“It’s not like he did anything to me. I kept my big girl undies on, Gil,” said Mallory, sealing her lips tight as her chest and her throat flooded thickly with remorse. The lives she had saved, both guilty and innocent, had truthfully never washed her of Agent Székely’s handshake. She had no idea how Gil could bear to touch her.

“It’s a fucking miracle that you don’t hate all men,” said Gil. Angry lines crinkled his forehead, his eyes narrowed from thoughts which upset him, emotions simmering until he could wrestle with his offended righteousness where Mallory wouldn’t see. His hand brushed down her hair, settled on the back of her neck.

Mallory pressed her nose into his coat, grateful that his clean smell drove out the cloying remembrance of sweet pea. She never used that brand of lotion ever again.

“No, Gil. You know I don’t hate you. I never could hate you.”

“Damn it, kid. You don’t think as someone who loves you, that I want to be one of the first people you tell when anything happens, good or bad? I need to know.” 

His thumbs brushed at droplets that Mallory couldn’t feel. She expected pity. She anticipated that Gil would avoid her eyes on the inevitable day she broke down and faced the rift of unmentionable topics which separated them. Instead, Gil looked ashamed of himself.

“I thought we could get back in touch working cases together but you’ve been slipping, not caring for yourself. I fucked up the moment you stepped foot in Claremont and saw your father again.”

“It’s done. The case went down. For the record, you can use me. I’m good for it,” said Mallory. “Because you love me, I’ll do whatever you want.”

Her words, which she intended to be reassuring, caused Gil to release her immediately. 

“Love you, too, kid. I want you in bed, clocking in some Zzz’s,” he said. As if on cue, a treacherous yawn broke through Mallory’s answering grin.

“Daddy knows best.” Mallory flounced out of the Pontiac. 

Before she hoofed it to her loft, she bent down at the passenger window and smudged the glass with a little pink smooch, winking when Gil’s hands raised up from his wheel and shooed her away. Going by the absence of bird droppings, he had just washed his car.

Nodding off into sleep was much less unpleasant than usual, with the memory of Gil’s lip skimming her ear, pressed so closely that both of their cheeks were wet with the tears he shed for her sake.

* * *

Mallory hated being on stage. Although she had the gift of gab when it came to negotiating and buying time with killers, she either regurgitated words or vomited in front of an audience for a tame public speech.

Yet there she was, on the crossover walkway suspended high up with the theater lights where the killer lured their fourth victim for a deadly round of rope tricks. Gil and JT were chasing down their guy in the wings while Mallory gripped at a length of rope. Their key witness was tied up on the other end of that hemp rope, absolutely dependent on Mallory’s ability to not let go. Mallory sobbed as Dani anchored her, backing them up, steps ringing on metal, until the killer’s intended victim clutched the rails and kicked up, scraping their chest and belly, but alive.

The case went down and Mallory checked in at urgent care to treat her wrenched arm and her palms raw and blistered and chock full of embedded splinters plucked out fiber by fiber.

Gil laughed the entire trip home when he saw the snowy gauze which mittened her hands.

“They’re like cute kitty paws,” Gil said, nudging her cheek.

Mallory pouted as she rode shotgun. Her elbow crooked beneath the sling that nursed her injured right arm. Although she hadn’t done permanent damage, Mallory needed to rest the arm before seeing a physical therapist.

Gil helped her inside. With only a moment’s hesitation, Mallory instructed him to twist the very top lock, for when she sincerely did not require her mother to rescue her. Her tailor would tell her that she did quite a number on her dress suit. Before Mallory could bring in her clothes to repair the snagged threads, she had to take them off somehow.

Gil slung his jacket on the whitewashed ledge adjacent to the steps. As he ascended, he didn’t take his purposeful gaze off of Mallory who waited for him. Her fair face lifted, lashes fluttering when his curled fingers skimmed down her cheek, cupped her chin. Their lips brushed, his whiskers pressed her skin, but Gil held back.

“Mal,” he said, his mouth kind, his voice warning.

“Get my clothes off. I’ll do anything you want, Gil.” Mallory tipped her head back, counting on him to close the space.

Gil didn’t disappoint. He chased her lips, fingers buried in her loose brown hair and his other hand pressing her lower back. Her good arm curved over his shoulders, squeezing, launching herself into his solid warmth.

The floor rushed out from under her as Gil encircled her waist and raised her up, palms all over her ass. Mallory laughed as Gil strode through her apartment, Sunshine the parakeet rustling and chirping in response to their visitor. The toe of his shoe stubbed against the raised platform near her bed, but Gil caught himself, a reflex from darting over curbs and flights of stairs.

“Woops, mind the step,” teased Mallory. 

She squawked when Gil sat her down on the side of her bed and then pushed her. Mallory felt tingles all over, pulsing between her legs, hands itching, as Gil yanked the back of his sweater over his head and threw it. Mallory regretted her injuries when he likewise peeled off a soft gray undershirt. His shoulders were sculpted and his posture was excellent from weight training. Black and gray hairs dusted his stomach which was lightly padded, love handles curving over his belt. His piece, his shield, and his watch clinked atop her bedside dresser. Once he stripped down to burgundy boxers, Gil stepped out of his pooled pants.

Mallory lifted herself onto her one elbow, eyeing up Gil’s brown legs, his cock covered but erect in his boxers. He pounced on top of her, inciting a giggly shout.

“So, kid. Anything I want, huh?” Gil said.

Before Mallory said something smart, he devoured her lips hungrily, a kiss edged with teeth. She moaned beneath him, arching when Gil’s hand slid down her trousers, twisting her panties, hooking fingers into her pussy, grinding her clit under his palm.

Her face grew hot, her nose and mouth reddened from her blood rising, an arousal response. She bit the soft insides of her cheeks, frustrated, when Gil stopped fondling her to unclasp her trousers. Her trousers caught on her socks before he yanked those off, too. His hand gripped her ankle, his beard stroking her instep, kissing the ball of her foot, licking a hot stripe up her toes. Mallory gasped, wriggling her ass, when Gil swallowed her polished blue toenails, suckling a kiss for each one.

His hand squeezed the curve of her lower leg before stroking the soft dip behind her knee. His eyes ate up the sight of her pussy folds glistening beneath her pressed blouse, the medical sling, and her suit jacket frayed by her misadventures. Mallory had a trimmed landing strip, a neat triangle, but kept no hair on her labia or the furl of her ass.

“Seriously Gil, you’re killing me,” panted Mallory. Her shaky bandage hand, not the one in a sling, thumped the mattress. She didn’t care about the resulting sting.

“You said that you would do whatever I want. I’m holding you to that, Bright. You’re gonna stay down.”

His gaze flicked to Mallory's medical sling.

"Before you hurt yourself," Gil added, deadpan.

“But don’t you wanna use my mouth? I can ride dick. Condoms in the drawer,” said Mallory.

“I know you’re good for it, Bright. Not today, kid.” Gil chuckled at her wounded expression. 

He grabbed her pillow and wedged it under her lower back. Mallory pushed herself off the bed, straining until she could kiss the base of his neck, lick his collarbone, swirl her tongue around his nipple.

She smirked at him when he closed his eyes and paused just to feel her slow mouth. Gil’s hands massaged her lower back, his fingertips circling beneath the hem of her blouse. When he kissed her, their lips slipped and noses bumped from their giddy laughs and self-satisfied smiles. They found each other again, kissing so desperately that their bodies curved into one another, his hands raking through rich, brown clumps of hair. Mallory could only feel Gil’s near nakedness with her bare legs. 

Mindful of the sling, Gil deliberately pulled her suit jacket open and raised her blouse to kiss her stomach, the tip of his tongue wetting another strip down her navel. The calluses at the base of his fingers snagged her blouse. She laughed again when Gil briefly nuzzled against her breasts, his breath heating the silk. 

Gil’s fingers speared into her cunt, slick from her excitement. He laid down by her side, trapping her leg between his knees, taking her mouth with his tongue and his teeth, swallowing her moans as his fingers stroked inside her, aimed frontally. Mallory cried out, thighs spreading, hips raising up and off the pillow, when Gil’s fingers tracked an engorged ridge inside her body which sent a frisson of pleasure up her arched spine. 

“Fuck, Gil. I need to-- fuck. I have to go to the bathroom.” Mallory panicked, feeling the tickle in her lower body that made her terrified of letting go.

“You’re going to wet yourself but it’s not going to be pee,” Gil told her. 

She shivered violently, clenching hard, as his thumb circled her clit. Her soft muscles resisted the intrusion and Gil pushed back. They heard the rhythmic squelching of his movements inside her filthy, dripping canal. He twisted his hand and stretched her with slow, blunt, patient force. 

Mallory strained in his arms. “Gil, I can’t-- Fuck, Gil!”

“Give it to me, Mal. Come for me. I want you to soak your sheets. Do what I say.” His voice was hoarse from kissing. If he weren’t in her ear, inside her head, deeper into her center, Mallory would’ve missed him. Gil was growling like an animal, his cock grinding into her side.

“I’m going to pee. I don’t wanna.” Her thighs tensed, heat gathering underneath the collar of her suit jacket, sweat dripping down her chest inside her silk blouse.

“Let go, baby. I said for you to come. You’re going to come.” His nose and hard mouth kissed at her hair. Then his hand clutched her neck possessively, taking control of her pleasure, his will over her preferences, his fingers inside of her flicking dexterously, jabbing meanly, until Mallory curled into herself. 

She squirted into her bed as Gil forced her to orgasm, spanking her ass so hard she felt it deep in her muscles, clear juices arching a few times, staining the linens. Her penciled brows drew together, swollen lips gaped in an unexpected shout. 

Gil smiled, enjoying how exhausted Mallory appeared in the juices pooling under her ass. Her pink face shined with sweat as though she labored, hair stuck to her soaked temples. Her damp pink slit spasmed where Gil's fingers opened her. His hand splayed over her stomach and pushed, gratified when more juices gushed from her pussy twitch. The heel of her right foot gleamed wet from getting sprayed on. Mallory protested, her legs sore and torso sensitive from coming so hard. 

Gil’s boxers were likewise stained, but he wasn’t done. Mallory’s teeth sank into her dry lips when Gil knelt between her knees and lapped at her sticky thigh. The gauze from her hand pressed the back of his neck, messed up his graying black hair. But he was stronger, the crook of his elbows anchoring down the spread of her legs. 

“Gil, oh my God. I came.”

“Yes you did, baby. Now if I keep going, you could fill a whole glass for me,” said Gil. He sucked and bit at her shaking thighs, drawing out his savory teasing. Mallory’s neck arched, her hips bucking, groaning from how quickly she already wanted his mouth. Waves of aching and yearning overwhelmed Mallory.

Gil took his time. He tongued the crease of her leg, giving his dues to both her legs. His fingers massaged generous unhurried circles spiraling from her hips to the globes of her ass, stopping short of her damp pussy lips. The tip of his tongue dragged up her thigh, the wet of his lips puckered around sharp teeth which marked Gil's torturous wanderlust on Mallory's pale thigh. He also had a way of turning his head side to side, ensuring Mallory suffered the caress of his beard and the thrum of his happy noises when he tasted pussy slick.

Between two fucked up hands, Mallory couldn't get herself off. Her hips undulated, but the motions brought no relief for the slow burn which Gil crafted with his passionate eyes, his tender fingers, his dirty mouth.

"Gil! Fucking hell. Make me come. I can't," pleaded Mallory.

She mewled, her voice breaking when Gil bent her legs, spread her ass and dipped his tongue along her crack, grinding heavy kisses onto the hood of her clitoris in so many sweet stings that made her beg like a bitch in the wild. Gil tilted his head and clamped her swollen vulva between his teeth, tugging each lush meaty lip like a ravenous predator growling, the savage vibrations edging her ever closer.

Gil finally nosed at her clit, not caring that she soaked his beard. His lips pinched and rolled down her swollen mounds, thrusting his tongue in and out of her pulsing slit, slurping and smacking noises just filthy and good. Sensing that she was primed, from how her hips stilled, her breath stalled, blue eyes unfocused but shining from how they watered up, Gil kept to the rhythm that worked for Mallory, steadily licking her clit and pressing her labia until air and blood rushed through her. Her pussy juices coated his chest, thrills overtaking her from how he held her eyes.

The waistband of his boxers stretched low, weighed down under Gil’s gloriously thick cock smeared with his own reactions to Mallory’s pleasure. He was so turned on that a vein stood out, pulse and shadow, adding strange wondrous appeal to his shape and thickness and darker color. Gil picked the worst angle to fuck down her throat when his hard dick wouldn’t bend. Mallory was burning up in her clothes where he sat on her. He pulled her hair, pain emanating from the abuse, pounding the soft hollow in the back of her throat. Mallory gagged, the base of her tongue getting tired from sliding and flattening around his girth. Real tears leaked from her eyes and into her ears, down her neck. His pubic hairs, salted and black, chafed her nose. Gil pinched and pulled her clit and choked her with his cock. Her hand uselessly beat at his lower back, the other one soundly trapped.

More pleasure rippled through her, cresting when he filled her throat in a series of long overdue spurts. As she gasped in relief, starved on air, she came untouched, her voice utterly wrecked coming out of her sopping mouth. She crossed her legs, flexing her muscles and grinding out her climax. 

“Gorgeous. Baby, you’re wow,” Gil said. 

Mallory cupped his cheek in answer.

He guided her elbow and kissed her inner forearm, nuzzling the back of her wrapped hand, nothing less than adoration in his expression and his actions.

“Gil, what the hell,” said Mallory, drooling spit and come from her stupefied smile. 

“You had it coming, Mal. When you play with a grown man, no more games.” Gil’s fingers traced her curled leg and wrapped around her foot, grinning when he felt the sticky and flaky come which somehow landed there. Mallory blinked her doll eyes at him, a guileless expression that fooled no one.

“You had to get your heels wet sometime, kid.”

Gil’s mouth met hers, a sublime exchange, fullness from emptying into one another, a profane mingling of what they tasted like together. When she opened up for him, Mallory believed she would manipulate their situation to her liking, but the sly ol' fox put one over on her.

Fin.


End file.
